


Natural Disaster

by primetime



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bodyswap, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-30
Updated: 2011-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-15 06:22:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primetime/pseuds/primetime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No, don’t – seriously, Sam, for the love of freaking god, don’t touch that- aw, shit. Goddamnit, Sam!” Dean said, brushing Sam’s bangs out of his own eyes. Motherfucker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Natural Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> Written for trinipedia for spn_j2_xmas, who requested first time bodyswap.

“No, don’t – seriously, Sam, for the love of freaking god, don’t touch that- aw, shit. Goddamnit, Sam!” Dean said, brushing Sam’s bangs out of his own eyes.  
Motherfucker.

Sam blinked, probably trying to get used to the new perspective from where Dean had been comfortably kicking his feet up to watch a rerun of an old cowboy movie. He’d been looking forward to it, to relaxing for the first fucking time in like a billion years. Castiel hadn’t been around for over a week, Ruby was either off messing with somebody else’s brother or just keeping her contact with Sam pretty sneaky, and they had actually had the time to waste a straight-up ghost, no frills, no higher power, no nothing. A spirit with a grudge. It was making Dean nostalgic.

Sam, of course, had taken this as an opportunity to go snooping through Dean’s things.

“Sorry, did that look like your bag?” Dean said, advancing. “Maybe you went color-blind, because yours is blue. Maybe you went actually blind, and considering who you’re currently banging-“

“I was out of socks!” Sam said, and looked puzzled when it came out kind of high-pitched. He cleared his throat and tried again, sounding a bit more normal, “Dude, how do you talk like eight octaves lower than your actual voice all the time? Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Seriously, Sam? Seriously, that’s what you’re focusing on?” Dean asked, crossing his arms and looking away. It felt uncomfortable, like he couldn’t get Sam’s arms to settle just right against his chest. Wow, he’d never realized three inches made such a difference. Dean swore the lamps looked smaller than before.

Sam nodded, narrowing his eyes. “Just saying. Um, right. What the hell is this?”

“This,” Dean snapped, “is you setting off my one-time-only cursed necklace thing.”

“Is that what that was?”

“In the box taped securely shut in my own duffel bag? Yeah.”

Sam looked guilty, which was a sure sign that he’d opened it on purpose. Dean had resigned himself a long time ago to Sam’s- well, what Sam called “curiosity” and Dean called “goddamned inability to keep his hands out of other people’s personal shit”. Snotty teenage Sam, who had mastered slamming doors at Dean’s first question at a wonderfully precocious age, had nevertheless felt pretty entitled to know the details of Dean’s every girlfriend, to get the gossip from every party that he’d snuck out to attend, to share every stolen pack of smokes. He apparently hadn’t managed to kick the habit.

“Well?” asked Sam, obviously waiting an explanation.

“I dunno!” Dean said. “Bobby left it with me, said all I had to do was toss it in an ocean next time we hit one. Said there was no possible way we could screw this up.”

“Dude, we were an hour from the Atlantic a week ago.”

“Yeah, well, I forgot. I didn’t think it was urgent, seeing as it was tucked safely away. In my bag. Wow, I think mosquito bites are actually itchier in your body.”

“I know, right?” Sam said, triumphant. “You never believed me!”

“Damn,” Dean said, scratching at arms. “Fine, next time we head into a swamp I’ll let you stop for bug spray. Shit, this is awful.”

Sam looked like he wanted to throw twenty years of “Suck it up, Sammy” right back. It looked weird on Dean’s face. Damn, watching yourself sucked. Dean looked pretty normal in the mirror, usually. Maybe it was just Sam’s expressions messing up his face.

“So what are we going to do?” Sam said.

“You mean what are you going to do?” Dean said, leaning back to flop down on Sam’s bed. His ass missed the mattress by around three inches and he hit the floor. Goddamnit, they needed to solve this immediately, if only to stop Sam from cackling in Dean’s voice, which just sounded terrible. Like, terrifying.

Dean recovered swiftly and with dignity. “You,” he said, over Sam’s snorts, “are going to call Bobby, and you are going to be the one to explain what you did. I’m sick of being the one to get his lectures.”

“C’mon, Bobby hasn’t lectured you in ages,” Sam said, “He’s too happy you’re-“

“Back,” Dean finished, and the air in the room snapped into tension like it always did when they had to talk about- well, whatever.

Sam snapped his fingers, looking half-regretful, half-unashamed. “All right, pass me your phone.”

Dean folded Sam’s arms behind his head and gloated.

“Stop smirking and pass me your damn phone,” Sam said, trailing off as he realized and patted down the pocket of Dean’s jeans. “Are you gloating? Seriously? I saw you crack your head on the headboard, you know,” Sam said as he pulled it out and dialled.

Just out of curiosity, Dean flexed Sam’s right arm. Damn. All the same, Sam’s back was killing him – Dean kind of missed his almost brand-spanking-new body, still missing some of the accumulated muscle mass, yeah, but free of aches and pains- well, except the knuckles on his right hand he’d busted last week. And the shoulder that was still twinging after making damn painful contact with a wall.

“Bobby?” Sam said. “Yeah, no- it’s about that amulet you gave- yeah, yeah, we did, but it was completely one hundred percent my fault. Mine, Dean Winchester’s. Quit yelling, old man-“

Dean grabbed the phone out of his hand as Sam cracked up, smacking Sam upside the head as he went. “Sorry, Bobby. So, um, here's our question."

*

“Does this mean I get your mojo?” Dean said over dinner, vaguely excited. There were a lot of possibilities open to a guy who had a couple fewer scruples than Sam in the matter of lady friends.

“Psychic,” Sam said, every inch of it filled with scorn. “Psychic. Psych. Like psychology. The study of the mind.”

“I got your brain, dude,” Dean said, focusing on levitating the diner fork right off the table. Nada.

“Actually,” said Sam, sitting back in the booth, “it’s from the demon blood, right? So-“

“So maybe!” Dean said, and concentrated harder.

Sam tossed a napkin in his face. “You look like a dumbass when you squint like that,” he said, inspecting Dean’s fingernails. “Do you get manicures on the sly or something? Why are your nails so nice when mine are always broken?”

“Drank all my milk as a kid,” Dean said absently, trying to call over the waitress with his – Sam’s – his mind, goddamnit.

“Yeah, well, next time we dig up a grave you can do it by yourself, buddy. See how your nails look then.”

Dean was about to kick his brother in the shin when he felt hands sliding down over his shoulders, reaching around his neck, and almost caused a serious scene in the restaurant as he slammed Ruby's hands onto the table.

She was smirking at Sam across the table, in Dean's body, trying to flaunt her control of Sam or whatever. Jesus fucking christ.

“Oh my god,” Dean said, “get off me. Right now.”

Ruby slinked back like the vicious dog she was and eyed him slowly, nose to toes. “Dean?”

“Yes. Yes. Dean. Aw, shit, I gotta find a shower, fast,” Dean said, trying to brush himself clean. Ruby started laughing her ass off, while Sam slunk down in his chair like he was trying not to die of embarrassment. Yeah, Dean would be embarrassed too if he was screwing a demon, extenuating dead-brother circumstances or no extenuating circumstances.

“I feel dirty,” Dean said, enunciating every goddamn syllable.

"Shove over," she said, and he let her in, grudgingly. "So this is new! I don't get it, though - how is this supposed to help, exactly?"

"Uh," Sam said.

"This moron," Dean started.

"Ah," she said. "I see. So, you heading east?"

Sam and Dean swapped looks across the table. God, it was weird watching his own face twist into Sam's expressions.

"Like, towards the ocean," Ruby clarified, clearly enjoying the moment.

"That'll still work?" Dean asked, unable to stop himself.

"Yep," she said around a mouthful of Dean's burger. "Hell, if that's why you have it, some other poor suckers are probably waiting for you to get around to it."

Sam leaned over, looking intent. "You sure it'll reverse the, you know, body switching?"

"You think you're the first idiots to accidentally swap meat-suits? Think again, my friends," Ruby said as she worked her way through Dean's fries.

"Thank god," Dean said, feeling pretty warm towards Ruby and this diner and the goddamn whole world, actually.

"Anyways," Ruby said, finishing off Sam's coffee as she slid out of the booth. "This isn't actually a social visit. There are shenanigans going down in town. Check out local records about the abandoned gas station on Milton Road, by the pond. Just the spirit of the owner slash manager slash whatever. Body's buried in the storage shed on the left. See you later, you crazy kids."

*

“We can’t do this in each other’s bodies,” Dean said. “Sam, it’s just dumb.”

“Muscle memory!” Sam protested, like that was a sufficient response.

“Yeah, right, Sam. It’s probably different in-“ and Dean whipped a pair of ball up socks at Sam.

Sam not only caught them, he caught them with his left hand. “Sneaky,” he said snottily.

“Shut up,” Dean said.

“Dean, you know my body. We friggin’ live in each other’s faces-” but it wasn’t enough, Dean had a bad feeling about this and it wasn’t going away- “it'll kill more people, Dean.”

Dean turned away and started pulling out weapons. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

*

Dean took a deep breath, loosening Sam’s shoulders and rolling his neck, then stretched as far as he could, angling for the slim knife in his boot. Damn, he knew it was going to go wrong, he knew it from the first minute. He bit back a whimper as Sam’s knee seized up, trying to remember the spots Sam was wary about, the places he stretched carefully after a long day, but he was blanking, mind wiped by the burn in his shoulder.

“C’mon,” he mumbled, “c’mon, c’mon, fucking-“

He wasn’t going to be able to reach, not with Sam’s long legs, the injury in his shoulder. Sam was a flexible guy, usually, but the ropes were too tight and he couldn’t fucking make it past the pain, not without blacking out at least briefly, and he didn’t know how long exactly it would take Sam’s body to pull it together.

“Fuck,” Dean swore, banging his head back against the splintery wood and pressing his lips together sharply.

“Dean!” he heard Sam yell from downstairs, odd in his own voice but always, completely, recognizably Sam, before he was cut off- probably muffled somehow, by the ghoul that had originally killed the owner.

No back-up coming, no last saves, no way he was fucking going to save his brother, and Dean howled futilely down the stairs. “Leave him alone, you son of a bitch, leave him alone-“ and he closed his eyes and fell back and the ropes snapped apart unnaturally behind his back with a sharp crack and hit the walls on either side of the room. He'd done that. He hadn't meant to, his- Sam's- body had just reacted without his command, responding violently, strange and wrong.

Dean looked down at his bloody wrists, only for a second, before he was running down the stairs, pulling the silver knife out of Sam’s boots as he went.

*

His head hurt; it pounded with an unnatural freaking ache.

“That’s what it feels like,” Sam said wryly, looking out the car window as the scenery flashed by. “What a gift, huh?”

Dean’s hands felt frozen on the steering wheel as he parked. Each step towards the motel added about ten degrees of emphasis to the throbbing in his brain. Even the time it took Sam to unlock the door to the room, standing under the bright fluorescent light of the motel sign, was too long.

When Dean had woken up from Hell- when he had opened his eyes into a dark box with no air, no weapons, no Sam- it had taken him what felt like thirty seconds just to remember how to make his hands move. His body had been heavy, sluggish, unfamiliar, weighing on his mind even as he concentrated on clawing his fingers into fists and tearing, pounding, shoving his way out. There had been a lag between what he wanted to do and what his body had done. Too slow, even though he had new energy, had been refreshed and new like a teenager. Too big, too unwieldy, like thawing out numb limbs after a jog in the snow.

Dean lunged for the bathroom to rest his head against the sink, nauseous.

“Dean,” Sam said, leaning against the door, folding Dean’s arms smoothly.

“Fuck off,” Dean said into the sink.

“It feels wrong to me too,” Sam said.

“We’re brothers,” Dean said, before spitting into the sink, trying to clear the cotton out of his mouth. “Shouldn’t this be, you know, easier?”

“We’ll switch back.” Sam bit at his lips, an old habit, and Dean rubbed at his mouth, feeling at the chapped tooth marks that hadn’t faded out yet.

“How, Sam?” Dean demanded, furious, trying to close the door in his own face and ignore the way those green eyes widened. “Give me a real solution and I’ll stop freaking out. Anything.”

Sam pushed the door open, yelling back, “For such a badass you’re kind of a drama queen, Dean!”

Feeling his stomach churn, Dean slammed the door as hard as he could – as hard as Sam’s body could, which was apparently a lot harder because it knocked Sam into the door jam, face-first, before he toppled backwards onto his ass. Dean breathed out, a painful, dragging, forced exhale, and opened the door again.

“Son of a bitch,” Sam said from the floor, wiping at the blood dripping from his nose.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, ripping off some toilet paper. He knelt beside his brother, tilting his head back and holding up the tissue to his nose. Sam’s hand came up to cover his, strong and solid despite the knuckles Dean had busted last week.

“Fuck you, Dean, ow,” Sam said, almost mildly.

“Don’t be a baby,” Dean said, tentatively feeling at the line of his nose. Probably broken – Sam flinched under him – yeah, almost definitely. Ah well, not like he needed a cast on a broken nose. He’d get the first aid kit in a minute.

“We will fix this, Dean,” Sam said, not letting go of Dean’s hand, “You’ll get yourself back.”

Dean let out a long breath. “Yeah,” he said.

“And when you do, you’ll get to really enjoy this broken nose,” Sam said, crinkling his eyes in a smile and then wincing.

“My own fault,” Dean said, and grinned back down at him.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said, and leaned up so they bumped foreheads gently.

"Yeah," Dean said, breathing close, lips almost touching.

"I mean it. You'll settle back into your skin," Sam said, eyes closed.

"I know," Dean said, closing his own eyes, letting his nose bump gently against Sam's cheek. "Hey, I'm back, right?"

"Yeah," Sam echoed, and they sat next to each other for a while, almost touching.

*

They took a detour to the Atlantic.

“Good riddance,” Dean said, and flung it in with a mix of satisfaction and spite.

“To bad rubbish,” Sam finished as they watched it soar.

Dean looked over in horror. “To bad rubbish?” he asked, “Seriously, who are you? Somebody’s grandma?”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam said, and the amulet hit the water.

It was instantaneous, again- no flashing lights, no blacking out, just one second he was a freakish man-giant and the next he was looking out at the ocean with his own eyes, feeling his shoulders relax with a familiar ache.

“Ow,” he said, touching his nose.

Sam just smiled, half-serene, half-smug, and leaned over to kiss Dean’s mouth properly, for the first time.

“See?” he said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said, and leaned in for another hesitant kiss. When he thought Sam was good and happy, Dean pulled back, licked his finger and stuck it in Sam’s ear.

“You wet-willied me!” Sam said, aghast, and punched him right in the bicep.

“Good to be back,” Dean said, rubbing over the bruise, perfectly, completely, totally satisfied.


End file.
